


Falling Into You

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Memories of Falling, Spoilers, Switching Places, Wing Grooming, Wings Are Basically Daemons, daemon AU, promptfill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: An angel's - or demon's - wings represent their innermost soul. Touching another's wings is the biggest taboo - and Crowley and Aziraphale are about to break it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 155
Collections: Anonymous





	Falling Into You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Tadfield Advertiser Kink Meme; transferred here for Archive purposes.

"You've got to put some effort into this if you want it to work, angel," Crowley said, not for the first time that night.

And it had been a long night. After a very long day. They'd made it back from Tadfield with minimal hassle, apart from the fact that the bus driver had been mighty stunned about suddenly finding himself in London, and went on to contemplate how to best take that old Nutter's advice to heart while they were still unsupervised. Because neither of them were foolish enough to think they'd get another chance.

So Crowley had taken them to one of his safe houses along the Thames. It wasn't much more than empty storage space, but at least they were shielded from prying eyes. The plan they'd hatched there was as simple as it was clever. So, naturally, it had been Aziraphale's plan.

Crowley had also had a plan, of course. He'd been thinking about it on the ride back, in between being distracted by the soft halo the icy bus lighting cast around the angel's hair and their knees bumping at every pothole. It was a clever, cunning plan; very flashy, if he did say so himself. But if there was one thing they couldn't afford, Aziraphale argued, it was calling attention to themselves. So they'd gone with the angel's plan instead.

Which was honestly fine with Crowley. He could do inconspicuous. And the fact that he was finally able to discuss _schemes_ with Aziraphale, to watch him _strategize_ , out loud, in a way they had been keen to avoid in the past, was just an added bonus. It was like observing a conductor at work: Aziraphale's flying fingers captured Crowley's attention like any snake-charmer's flute.

Except the angel's plan didn't seem to actually be working. They'd been at this for over two hours now. Aziraphale, who stood in the middle of the room and had managed, so far, to make himself taller and ginger, threw his hands up. "You're one to talk. Look at yourself."

Crowley was sitting cross–legged on the floor – there weren't any chairs and he'd all but exhausted his powers for one night, stopping time in the middle of Armageddon like that – and staring up at him without blinking. "I am. And what I'm seeing isn't very convincing." He gestured, encompassing all of Aziraphale. "No demon would ever walk, talk, or _look_ like that."

"No angel would... _smirk_ the way you just did, either," Aziraphale shot back, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Crowley shrugged. He hadn't even been trying anything yet, but apparently the continued failure was making the angel tetchy. "That's because you don't have fun in Heaven."

"Other peoples' misfortune is not a source of amusement," Aziraphale said sharply and, at Crowley's snort, jabbed a finger at him. "That smirk, right there. It'll be your downfall."

Even before the words had fully left his mouth, he blanched. But like any human with a mouth faster than his brain, he couldn't stop it.

Crowley raised his eyebrow very deliberately. "I've already had my downfall, angel, and let me tell you: it wasn't the facial expression."

"Oh! Oh, Crowley, I'm so–"

"Don't say it," the demon interrupted, looking away. "If you're really sorry, take better care of your wings. No one Down There would show themselves with that kind of... whatever that is, angel." He glanced at the mess of soft–white that Aziraphale called his ‘plumage’ and winced. "Seriously, how do you stand all the crooked barbs?"

"Angels do not suffer from vanity," Aziraphale said primly. He shot a pointed look at Crowley's wings.

"No," the demon said immediately. "I am _not_ messing up my feathers for you. Absolutely not."

Aziraphale sighed in that way he had when he longed to throw his arms up in defeat but felt like that would call too much attention to the fact that he was conceding the point. Instead he put his fingers to his temples in a gesture that was eerily _Crowley_ and closed his eyes.

In the dim light falling through the windows – a street lamp somewhere, because this was London and the sky was never clear enough for moonlight – his silhouette changed, growing even taller. His wings slimmed, sharpening, more like a falcon's than a dove's. "Better?"

"They're still white."

"I am an _angel_!"

Crowley jumped to his feet. Mostly because now that they were the same height, he had the feeling he ought to be standing for this conversation. "That is rather the problem!"

"I don't see you doing any better," Aziraphale huffed. His chest was rising and falling with harsh breaths. Even though his only miracle of the afternoon had been flying himself, his new form and the witch finder general to Tadfield, all this body–changing must have left him as drained as Crowley felt. "Your wings are as black as Azrael's."

"Because I am a _demon_!", Crowley hissed, then realized what he'd just said and stared.

Aziraphale stared back, unblinking. Which was rather unnerving, considering his eyes were slitted, if still blue. His wings – a mesh of Crowley's bird–of–prey shape and his own broad white soaring primaries – fluttered nervously in no breeze at all.

Eventually, the angel cleared his throat. "It seems we have reached an impasse."

"Impasse," Crowley parroted, rolling his eyes. "Sure. Well, if we don't overcome this _impasse_ they're certainly going to kill us. Not just me, angel, you too. I know how 'forgiving' Heaven is. But no pressure or anything." He threw his hands up. Then he noticed that Aziraphale was toying with the edge of his sweater, like the angel was wont to do when he had something to say but wasn't quite sure if he really should. It always made Crowley's gut twinge; a tiny brush of irritation, and he hissed again. "What? You got any suggestions?"

"Just, uh, one." Aziraphale clenched his fingers tighter into the fabric. "Perhaps."

"What?"

"Crowley–"

" _What_ , angel?"

"The, well," Aziraphale looked away, then back to meet the demon's eyes. "The _problem_ seems to be that we are, inherently, what we are. Ever since the Garden and before, I've been nothing but an angel and you're a–"

Crowley crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Get to the point."

"I'm thinking... what if we don't know how to, well, _portray_ each other, because we don't know how it feels to _be_ each other?"

"What?" Crowley blinked. "Bullshit. I was an angel once."

And the thought that he might not remember was... ridiculous. Crowley's tongue darted out between his teeth; a reflex when he was getting worked up, and when he drew it back in he tasted the angel's new cologne.

Aziraphale's gaze softened in a way that not even his slitted eyes could hide. "A long time ago."

Crowley shot him a dry look. _Don't quote myself at me_.

The angel winced. "Do you actually remember what it's like to be an angel?"

Of course he did. He remembered the wind in his feathers and the way his wings had locked on the day the clouds no longer carried his weight. He remembered, clearly, how he'd stumbled and crashed, right through he boundary layer. There was nothing but blue below him, endless and terrifying.

Crowley looked away.

"Thought so," said Aziraphale softly.

The demon shook his head, mostly to clear it of the memories. "So we're doomed."

"Well, it's certainly a difficulty."

Crowley snorted. "If Hastur gets his slippery claws on me I'm not coming back, angel. And if it's not him, it's one of the others. I'm pretty sure Hell blames me for foiling Armageddon. And even if they don't, they need a scapegoat."

"Which is why we're going to make sure that's not happening."

Aziraphale sounded much brighter all of a sudden.

Crowley usually prided himself on his ability to pick up on the angel's thought process. Six thousand years of familiarity had to stand for something, after all. But he couldn't see it. " _How?_ "

The angel stepped up to him, eyes shining in the streetlight. His hands came up to settle on Crowley's shoulders. "Do you trust me?"

"Do I have anyone else– for somebody's sake, of course I trust you."

"Good."

Very carefully, the angel shifted his grip, sliding his fingers towards Crowley's back, between his shoulder blades and a little lower, where his night black wings sprouted from his back.

Crowley flinched on instinct. "Whoa!"

Aziraphale couldn't be meaning what he thought he–

"It's the only way, Crowley. To become you, I need to know who you really are."

Apparently, the angel _did_ mean.

Heat shot into Crowley's cheeks. This was... oh, fuck, this was no small matter.

He used to think he had it easier than humans, carrying his soul in his wings. They were the physical manifestations of his flight–capabilities – which, ironically, he didn't even _need_ to fly – and thus permanently attached to his body, which no human Daemon could claim.

On the other hand, a human Daemon could just walk over to let itself be touched by another. For them, it wasn't that easy. It required _contact_.

And contact and soul–sharing in one... Aziraphale would be able to see _everything_. The thought alone made Crowley's insides curl up in fear. "You can't."

"Why not?"

"There are things I don't want you to know, angel." A fine tremor worked its way down his body. "Ever thought of that?"

Aziraphale squared his shoulders defiantly. "I have. But I think weighing your life against your secrets has a clear answer."

Not in this case. If the angel knew what deep, dark secret Crowley had been harboring all these years... if he knew what his proximity and the whiff of his smell _did_ to him... he couldn't bear thinking about it.

Aziraphale's hand found his shoulder again and Crowley barely managed not to flinch. He held himself stock still, face turned away. With the way his heart was pounding in his chest, they wouldn't even need to merge their souls for the angel to figure out all of the shameful details.

"Do you think I don't have any secrets I don't want you to know?", Aziraphale asked softly.

Crowley's head jerked up.

Whatever the angel saw in his eyes made his own widen, slitted blue darkening in worry. "This would be mutual, of course. Did you think I would just take from you?"

When Crowley didn't say anything – with his mouth, at least – Aziraphale threw his arms around his shoulders, hugging him close. "Silly demon."

They stood there like this, the demon stock still in his erstwhile adversary's arms, for a small eternity. Until the angel's warmth had seeped through his sweater to soothe the shivers and he'd shyly moved to return the caress – a little awkwardly, since the placement of Aziraphale's arms meant he'd have to be careful with his own to avoid touching his wings by accident. 

The thought alone was mortifying. Not because Crowley didn't _want_ to touch his wings – oh, Lord, he did. But touching another's soul without permission was not only a social taboo but a personal one. This was the reason angel's didn't hug.

The demon curled his hands into the fabric of Aziraphale's sweater. His fingers felt clammy with sweat. "Angel."

Aziraphale stiffened.

Crowley froze. "Uh?"

"My dear, I need to know– I need your permission. Verbally."

Heat curled under his sternum, flaring through his belly. But with it came another, cooler feeling, like a breeze on a hot summer's day. The softness of a tartan collar under his fingertips, the safety of a bookshop's walls and shelves, the dizzying rush of being alone and drunk and so very daring.

Wrapped as close around each other as they were right now, it was hard to believe Aziraphale would ever hurt him. Crowley shuddered. It was a dangerous feeling, this kind of unconditional trust. "You have it," he rasped. Now and always. "Do I... do I have yours?"

Aziraphale's harsh exhale tickled the side of his face. "Yes," he breathed. "Always."

His voice sounded slightly shaky. He wasn't as unaffected as he'd tried to seem before.

The thought gave Crowley courage. With a deep breath, he slid his hands into Aziraphale's plumage.

In an instant, the world shifted, tilting off to the side and toppling over. Everything that was _Aziraphale_ unraveled before him like yarn in the paws of a cat. He slipped into the angel's mind; akin to dipping under water, while the ocean of his own being found itself with its very own unexpected swimmer.

Yet, Crowley didn’t stop to look back. Something in the deep was drawing him, and he dove for it without a second thought. Memories flooded his mind: them on the wall back in Eden – _wherehasitgoneIwonder_ – their meeting back in Rome – _oystersohhelooksworried_ – bits and pieces of other moments they shared, tinged with fondness and delight.

Crowley watched them in fascination as they floated by, warmed, inexplicably, by the thought that Aziraphale had been paying attention.

But the string of happy, bright images abruptly cut off when he reached the French Revolution. Sure, the memories were there, and they were as clear as day, but there was a blur coating every picture, like fog. The backgrounds faded into smeared darkness, all faces vague except for Crowley's own. As if Aziraphale hadn't really noticed their surroundings at all.

Puzzled, Crowley reached out to touch the images and felt a sizzle of warning along the back of his hand. It stung. He retreated. Aziraphale had put his soul under a magnifying glass – _not_ looking at what he didn't want Crowley to see was the least he could do.

It nagged at the back of his mind, though, as he continued his way deeper, and deeper, until he reached the core. The roots of his soul. Which, surprisingly, wore his original shape, the way angels had been first made: three massive rings dotted with eyeballs, floating around a flaming, shapeless being, unfathomable, and yet, somehow, beautiful.

The sudden, fierce hope that he himself had been crafted with as much care overcame Crowley, and he had to fight a lump in his throat. If he'd ever seen his own angelic form, he didn't remember. After the fall, he hadn't bothered to look. But this wasn't him, this was Aziraphale, and the demon couldn't tear his eyes away.

Because at the center of Aziraphale’s soul shone the answer to all mysteries: the reason he had never fallen, even after years of ‘frivolous miracles’, ‘fraternizing’ with a demon and staring the Devil right in the face.

He was loved.

His core, the very nature of his angelic soul, was nothing but unshakable certainty. Where there was only doubt in Crowley, dark and black and swirling like storm-tossed waters, a mirror of the abyss – that eternal, _infernal_ question how the Almighty could ever love something as unfinished, as _unperfect_ as him; the fact that she _couldn't_ , that he was flawed and not worthy – Aziraphale _radiated_ light. His Creator loved him. There was no greater truth than this.

And from this bottomless well of love Aziraphale poured out even more: for the world and himself and all of Creation and – for Crowley.

It felt like bathing in sunshine. The demon – cold and needy and envious, _starved_ for affection, every scrap of it he could get – couldn't stop himself from grasping for it, from reveling in it. He could be an angel again, like this, with so much love to surround–

A stab of fear.

Connected as they were, it took Crowley a moment to realize that it wasn't his own. It took another few seconds for the physical world to register over the exhilarating rush of sinking into each other – _after all this time_ – but then he finally felt Aziraphale clutching at him, fingers digging painfully into his coverts.

Confused, Crowley tried to draw back, but found himself gripped even harder, the grasp on his plumage turned bruising. "Angel?"

Aziraphale turned his head at the words, but it quickly became evident that he was only following the sound: his eyes were huge and empty, staring off into the void. He was deathly pale. His parted lips quivered, mumbling words in a language that had never existed.

Against his chest, Crowley could feel the angel's heart thumping faster and faster in rising panic. He tugged gently at a handful of tertiaries. "Aziraphale."

The angel jerked. His voice, when he found it, was barely a whisper. "I'm falling."

Crowley's eyes grew wide. His heart skipped a beat, before launching into a gallop. The only thing that kept him from freaking out instantly was the distinct absence of the stench of seared flesh and feathers, and the fact that the ground wasn't opening up beneath them to swallow them whole. But Aziraphale's panic echoed within him, closing a feedback–loop neither had meant to establish. His hands turned sweaty. He could hardly breath over the throbbing in his throat. Under his feet, the clouds had given way again.

"I'm falling, Crowley," Aziraphale whimpered against his ear. "I'm _falling_."

Crowley clutched him back. "You're not," he rasped, voice shaking. "It's me, _I'm_ falling, I've _already_ fallen. It's _not you_. It's just the memories."

The angel's fingers unclenched just to immediately close again, sending sparks of pain along Crowley's wings.

"You're not, you're _not_ ," he demon hissed. Fuck, that stung.

"There's nothing, my wings aren't working; I can't see, I can't _see_ –"

He started struggling. He'd work himself into a frenzy.

Crowley took a deep breath. He needed to stay calm. He couldn't allow Aziraphale's panic to drag him down with him. Best case scenario: they'd lash out at each other in self–defense. Worst case: ... the angel would forget that he was still a separate being, and that the darkness in Crowley's heart wasn't what he truly _was_. And once that first sliver of doubt crept in, it was _over_.

Fuck, no. Crowley _wouldn't_ allow it.

Electricity jumped between them, and it might as well have been the kind that poured from the outlets for the way it twinged on Crowley's skin. His own darkness was rising to the surface, leaking into Aziraphale. He fought to keep his corruption at bay, but the angel was pulling at him, tangled up in strands of his soul. The night was growing opaque around them. Over the angel's shoulder, Crowley thought he saw black bleeding into hollow quills, amid soft white down.

He had to remind Aziraphale of the light inside him. Of absolution and benediction and forgiveness: the ultimate warmth. Acceptance. _Love_.

There was only one way he knew how.

 _Forgive me_ , Crowley thought, knowing Aziraphale wouldn't be able to hear it over his breathless thrashing. Then he leaned in and sealed his lips over the angel's.

Aziraphale made a strangled noise.

Crowley ignored him, kept holding on and licked his plush, soft lips. "I'm here, angel," he whispered. "I'm here, I'll always be here. I'll catch you–"

"Can't– can't see the ground," Aziraphale choked. He looked around frantically. Tear tracks glistened on his face.

Crowley's stomach clenched. Back then, he'd done more than cry. But Aziraphale had always been braver than him. "Spread your wings, angel."

"I can't, they're not working, where are my wings, my wings–"

His breath was coming as fast as a startled rabbit's.

Crowley ran a soothing hand through his coverts, trying not to think about the inky blackness staining his fingers. "Your wings are fine."

Aziraphale stopped struggling. His grip loosened. When he looked up, his eyes found the demon's face, even though they were still empty. "Where are _you_ , Crowley?"

Something broke a little; in his dark, fallen heart. He held on tighter. "I'm right here, angel. Can't you feel me?" He laid all the love he had into the words: every scrap of light that had somehow managed to fend off the darkness inside himself, every drop of warmth his cold, desolate heart had to give, hoping desperately that it would be enough. He might have doubted the concept of love all his life, but he _never once_ doubted his love for Aziraphale.

The angel latched onto the feeling like a drowning man to the last straw. " _Crowley_ ," he moaned.

Curling in on himself, he buried his head against the demon's shoulder. Shudders worked their way down his body. He pressed wet sobs into the fabric over his collarbone.

Tentatively, Crowley rubbed his hand down the angel's back, then back up again, along his wings. The leading edge was sturdy under his fingers. Unable to help himself at the feel of the messy plumage, he began flattening the tangled coverts back into their normal position, before moving on to straighten a few secondaries that stood askew. All the while, he kept up a steady stream of soft whispering. "I'm here, angel. I'm here."

Eventually, the shaking stopped.

Since they were still touching, Crowley felt him unravel the tangled mess of fear and panic to find something underneath that felt suspiciously like guilt.

The angel lifted his head, eyes shining with tears, but clear. "I had no idea."

"How could you?", asked Crowley, watching him suspiciously. He couldn't let his guard down.

Another tear trickled down his cheek, leaving a fresh mark. "I had no idea what it's like for you. It's– it's–"

He broke off and his face scrunched up. Aziraphale was an ugly crier.

"Shh," soothed Crowley. "It's alright."

The angel's head flew up. "How can it be when you're in pain?!", he all but shouted. "How can you just be _okay_ with how they treated you? How can you be okay with how _I_ treated you? How can you _live_ like this?"

His voice was full of pain. Outrage flared in his heart, on Crowley's behalf, and the sudden brightness took the demon's breath away. The current of emotion between them swung faster, resonating.

Crowley tilted his head. "Because it's not about you, angel."

Aziraphale stopped short. "Excuse me?"

The demon ran a hand through his hair, a smile curling his lips. He sunk into the outpouring of love that the angel had opened for him, glad for the blinding light of the one soul outshining his own. "I have you. Nothing else matters."

Aziraphale blinked. Only now did it seem to occur to him to pay more attention to the connection between them. His face got that far away, funny look that closely listening humans sported. He'd always been less attuned to the subtleties – and that was so painfully _Aziraphale_ that Crowley had to smile.

The angel's eyes widened. "My dear–?" He cupped Crowley's cheek in his palm. There was an invitation in his touch.

Crowley's breath stuttered. He surged forward, claiming the angel's mouth in a passionate, heated kiss. "Yes," he hissed. "Yesss."

"Yes," Aziraphale said back, between their lips – an answer to a silent question.

Relief made Crowley's stomach swoop.

They kissed and kissed, forgetting the time passing by outside their windows. Maybe it stopped for a while, maybe it didn't.

The first silver sheen of morning teased the horizon when Crowley finally managed to disentangle himself, feeling, vaguely, that it was time to go home.

He'd barely finished the thought when he felt a wash of apprehension from Aziraphale. Direct thoughts didn't transfer, but he must have caught the gist of it.

"Hell," Crowley reminded him, consoling him with a tender kiss that was just the barest press of lips, dry and soft.

Aziraphale made an unhappy sound, but let him go. Regret filtered along their connection. It was mirrored in the angel's eyes when he opened them – but there was also something else; something that made the hairs on Crowley's arms stand on end.

He raised a brow.

Aziraphale flushed. "We'll talk about it later," he said. "Uh. If you want to."

"You must be kidding."

A quirk of lips. Then the angel stepped back, severing their connection. Already, Crowley missed the feeling of his feathers between his fingers.

Aziraphale looked him up and down once and focused. In the pale, first light of the morning the white of his wings turned to soot and sable, like inkblots against the morning sky. His body followed the shift, as did his face, until Crowley was staring back at himself. Grim determination glittered in the angel's yellow eyes.

Crowley snapped his fingers. His wings fluttered, primaries broadening, until they were no longer his own but Aziraphale's. A moment later, he was two inches shorter, but no less determined. They were going to get through what their respective superiors had planned for them. They were going to get both Heaven and Hell off their backs – and, if he got the chance, he'd make sure Upstairs would stay off Aziraphale's permanently.

The angel held out a hand and Crowley gave him his glasses, watching interestedly as he put them on. He'd never desired his own physical form – even though as a demon, narcissism was practically a required qualification – but just knowing Aziraphale was now the one inhabiting that lean, strong body made his nether regions tingle. "You know, I can't really blame you. I look rather dashing."

The words sounded unfamiliar, spoken with Aziraphale's voice.

The angel rolled his eyes – and oh, that was a look Crowley knew by heart. "Don't break what's left of my bookshop. And come by when it's... you know."

"Over?" Crowley snorted.

"If you still want to have that talk."

The angel's eyes caught his. Blue on yellow, with so much more unsaid between them.

Crowley smiled. "Oh, _definitely_."


End file.
